I reach to the sky, though arms I have none. The top of a cathedral, or a point of alarm. I the tip of a tower, tapering up with silent power.

I glide without wheels through streets made of waves, or hang from a cable with mountain views to gaze. One rides the water, one rides the sky, both carry travelers passing by.

There is one in a second, none in a minute, two in one hour, but none in half. What am I?

I am filled with numbers yet solve nothing. I divide the endless into neat pieces. I hold what has passed and hint at what’s next, Though I never move an inch. I’m replaced again and again, But the marks I make still shape lives. What am I?

Carved from cold and cunning craft, a sleek sliver that slices shadows, whispered by witches in the heart of night.